Cabin Pressure: Skeleton Crew
by ko-writes
Summary: Prompt: Martin has an eating disorder. Douglas thinks he doesn't eat Arthur's cooking because it's, well, Arthur's cooking, and Martin tells Carolyn he barely has food because he can't afford it. The truth is that Martin is anorexic. The crew start to become suspicious when he starts getting even thinner and becomes weaker. Bonus if Martin passes out on GERTI.
1. Chapter 1

It wasn't as I said it was. I lied to the Alpha Dog. It couldn't be helped; I had to. If she found out -

No. Don't think like that. She won't find out. Deceit - despite what Douglas thinks - is second nature to me. It goes hand in hand with this - with this... _thing_. This hateful, damaging, addictive _thing_.

They'd seen that my uniform had gotten looser. They already knew I didn't get paid, so that fact was enforced with lies of poverty and starvation. Not _my_ kind of starvation, however. It was almost too easy.

Don't think I'm a con artist; I'm not. Really. I do live in the attic of a shared house, but it's a nice attic; and I could use the pay, the van jobs are getting harder and harder, my muscle has started to waste; I do only eat toast and pasta with the odd baked potato as a treat, but that's by choice. It's not like it stays down long enough to count as sustenance, though.

I loose the cheese tray on purpose. How could one say, to the mighty Sky-God Douglas Richardson, that I didn't want the cheese tray time after time without arousing suspicion. It's not like I could get rid of it either, not with my First Officer's deduction skills and the ever present steward. Then they would _know_.

So I'll keep up the deception. It was better than the pity, the dirty looks or the _concern_ and being hospitalised again with IV fluids pumping calories and other such in my system while I'm basically strapped to the bed after trying to remove it.

I cook for the students sometimes. The measurements, the textures, everything just relaxes me. I take an interest in food - an unhealthy one. I'll smile as the students tell me it's good and I'll say I like to cook so thanks aren't necessary. I'll smile - relaxed and easy - and they'll smile back at me and ask if I want to join them. That's when my smile falters and becomes fake, the colour will drain from my face and I'll make my excuses and run up to my little attic... Or there are no excuses to make and I'll join them - but put two fingers down my throat and take it all back.

It's always 'a few more pounds', 'just one more size', 'one more day without food'. It's messed up, I admit that, but it helps. Or at least I think it does.

Lies protect you. Lies protect others.

* * *

The van business mustn't be getting a lot of clientele these days. I catch clues here and there, nothing gets past this old Sky God.

It all started with his uniform. He's dropped at least two sizes recently and has had to cut new holes in his already small belt and his jacket just falls off his sharp shoulders.

Then, it was his wrist. I could encompass it with my thumb and forefinger. I could see his bones move as he flicked switches; I think he saw me notice, he pulled his sleeve down again a second later.

After that, it was his collar bone. The hollow underneath was shadowed at the time, in low light which would have exaggerated it, but it still looked so... prominent - and not in a good way.

Finally, it was a little incident the other week in that hotel (if it could be called that) in Bombay. He was getting dressed in the bathroom and I accidentally walked in as he forgot to lock it. I'll never forget the way his ribs stood out from stretched skin and his spin jutting from his back with his shoulder blades and hipbones. It was like he was nothing but skin and bone. I don't think he even realised I was there. I turned on my heel and closed the door as quietly as possible. If he noticed, he didn't say anything.

Then my mind gave me little whispers.

 _He doesn't eat Arthur's cooking..._

 **Because it's** **Arthur's cooking** **. It'd kill him faster than starvation.**

 _What if that isn't the reason why?_

 **What are you trying to convey?**

 _He never eats anything from the cheese tray..._

 **That's because I always win it. Now, stop this. Martin will be fine.**

 _That's what he wants you to think._

 **I'll invite him to dinner, so you can stop being so paranoid. Martin is poor, not intentionally starving himself.**

 _Go ahead. Ask him._

And I did, on the flight back.

 _"How's the van business?"_

 _"Not great, but it'll pick up."_

 _"Listen... If you need any help -"_

 _"Douglas, what's gotten into you? I'm fine."_

 _"How about a meal out when we get back - my treat."_

 _"Sorry Douglas; I have a van job, one of the scarce few I get these days..."_

 _"... Rhyming Journeys; for the entire cheese tray."_

 _"Alright."_

I try and make him win - I can't just _give_ it to him. I still win - naming only one - he names none at all. Something is wrong with the picture...

* * *

Martin asked me for money in Qikiqtarjuaq. He said he doesn't eat much - but it doesn't take a genius to work that out.

I don't know what to say - he's like a son to me, but I can't pay him. MJN is in the red as it is, we can't even afford to pay the bare minimum of pilots.

He's just so skinny and he's just getting thinner all the time. Douglas told me what he looks like under the uniform; the way skin is stretched over bone and I'm guilty and horrified. And now I see it. I see it all; the sunken eyes and dark bruising, the sharp cheekbones, the bony wrists, the flashes of collarbone raised underneath pale flesh - well, tissue paper skin. We're watching him waist away. We're watching him die.

He's getting so weak, too. How he's managing van jobs, I have no idea. Douglas said he had to help him last time - got a call at eight in the morning, voice at the other end in hysterics, saying how he couldn't lift the wardrobe and needed help. It takes a lot for him to ask for help.

I can't explain it, but one thing just sticks in my mind...

 _"And why's your uniform so baggy?"_

 _"I'm … I've lost a lot of weight recently."_

He laughed as he said it, and that smile... I don't know. It wasn't just the alcohol. I don't know, though. But I can tell Douglas thinks something's wrong, we just don't know what.

* * *

He's sick. Isn't he? Well, why didn't you say so? I'm not that much of a clot. He's lost a lot weight recently. Even more than we used to see.

He doesn't eat anything in flight - but my cooking's really bad, so that might be why. He's poor, I know he is.

But... There are weird things I've seen. He doesn't eat with us in pubs and restaurants anymore, and when he does, he looks like he's going to be sick and his hands shake. He pushes his food around a lot and, if he does eat it (he doesn't eat it often, though, and if he eats it's not much), he goes to the bathroom as soon as he's done and he's even paler and shakier when he comes back. I've seen him take apart sandwiches if he eats them - when he does he's sweaty and shaky again and his face sort of... screws up before he eats any thing; he also has a way of eating the taken apart sandwiches - tomato, lettuce, cucumber, bread; always like that. I don't think the others know, which is weird.

Something else is wrong. I know it.

Douglas said that he looks like a skeleton under his uniform. I thought _'Skeleton crew'_ like in pirate stories, the curses and stuff. I thought I'd be brilliant... But it's not. It's... bad. Really, really _bad_.


	2. Chapter 2

_Purging signs and symptoms:_

 _Using diet pills, laxatives, or diuretics – Abusing water pills, herbal appetite suppressants, prescription stimulants, ipecac syrup, and other drugs for weight loss._

 _Throwing up after eating – Frequently disappearing after meals or going to the bathroom. May run the water to disguise sounds of vomiting or reappear smelling like mouthwash or mints._

 _Compulsive exercising – Following a punishing exercise regimen aimed at burning calories. Exercising through injuries, illness, and bad weather. Working out extra hard after bingeing or eating something "bad."_

\-  .

* * *

He clutched the toilet bowl, expelling every single calorie from that stupid breakfast he hadn't had the skills to negotiate out of. Greasy eggs, fatty bacon, fried bread and processed baked beans. Disgusting. Hateful.

The burning in his throat _hurt_. It was supposed to, in a way; he guessed. _Serves me right for being such a fat, pathetic fuck up_.

The shower was on full blast, to disguise the sound; but he knew that if anyone stood directly outside the door, they'd hear him. But no one does. Nine years and three generations of students passed by without knowing his little... habit. He had a close call a few years back. A student found his, frankly quite impressive, supply of water pills, herbal appetite suppressants, prescription stimulants, ipecac syrup and other things of the like. He said that he got them for a friend and the student, who wasn't the sharpest knife in the draw, believed him. He's been more careful since then, they're now under his bed in a cardboard box.

He finally finishes, staring uncaringly at the slight trace of red in the vomit that he just couldn't bring himself to really care about, and flushed the toilet. He turned off the shower and waited until he could brush his teeth without gagging, examining his face in the mirror to check for burst capillaries.

He picked up his tooth brush and toothpaste, after wiping away a bit of blood from his mouth. He scrubbed at his teeth and gums - it wouldn't do to get tooth decay, what captain has rotten teeth?

Knocking back a heroic amount of peppermint mouthwash, he contemplates whether he should just swallow it and enjoy a bit of a buzz; it's a day off, after all. He decides to just spit it out; he wants to be in a good state of mind when he goes out running, so he doesn't get lost or something. He's running four miles today, then coming back to follow the usual sit-ups, Jack-knives and other exercises. If people knew of this, they'd call it punishing; he calls it _satisfying_.

He decides to stop and get more gum - the teeth cleaning type - and mints on his way. He's going through a packet a week, thanks to the new students being very insisting. They just won't let him go up to his room after cooking them food; it's so tedious.

He goes into his room and stares into his wardrobe. It's organised by type, then cross-organised by style and size. He has four sizes of clothes - medium, small, X small and XX small. He hasn't needed his 'Medium' clothes in years, but he keeps them because his size and weight has been known to yoyo. He's back into his 'XX small' clothes now - but he doesn't have many of them. He's taken to wearing children's clothes to try and find necessities that fit. He's short, he gets away with fourteen to fifteen on the length, but he's got a ten year old waist. Part of his mind knows he's too thin, the majority says he's still fat. _One more size._

He pulls out a pair of black shorts and a plain white baggy t-shirt. Children's clothes. He doesn't know if he's embarrassed or proud.

He undresses and catches sight of himself in the mirror on the interior of the wardrobe door and the ritual begins. It's something he watched his mother do time after time. He pinches his stomach, flesh catches beneath his fingertips; he prods at his stomach, his arms, his thighs. He catalogues everything. Arms need toning, thighs need to slim an inch, stomach is flabby. In the back of his mind, his rational thought screams that they aren't true, but the rest of his mind is screaming about his imperfections - so rational thought is swallowed by the cacophony.

He drags on his shorts and yanks on his t-shirt. He laces up his running shoes and leaves.


	3. Chapter 3

_Family and social pressures:_

 _In addition to the cultural pressure to be thin, there are other family and social pressures that can contribute to anorexia. This includes participation in an activity that demands slenderness, such as ballet, gymnastics, or modeling. It also includes having parents who are overly controlling, put a lot of emphasis on looks, diet themselves, or criticize their children's bodies and appearance. Stressful life events—such as the onset of puberty, a breakup, or going away to school—can also trigger anorexia._

 _Biological causes of anorexia:_

 _Research suggests that a genetic predisposition to anorexia may run in families. If someone has a sibling with anorexia, they are 10 to 20 times more likely than the general population to develop anorexia themselves. Brain chemistry also plays a significant role. People with anorexia tend to have high levels of cortisol, the brain hormone most related to stress, and decreased levels of serotonin and norepinephrine, which are associated with feelings of well-being._

* * *

While he runs, he thinks. It's a bad thing to do, sometimes; if your like him.

 _"Darling, you look great," Mr Crieff tried to assure his wife._ _"No," Mrs Crieff dismissed. That's when Martin first heard what he would often repeat in his mind, years after: "Just one more size."_

He ran past the bakery, the smell of freshly baked bread and cake. He stayed strong.

 _He was four. He ran into his parents' bedroom where his mother was staring at herself in the mirror. "Mum, can I have chocolate cake for my birthday?"_ _She looked over his form, he shrank back slightly, "You still haven't lost your puppy fat Marty; are you sure? You want to be handsome, don't you?"_ _"Sorry mum..."_ _For his birthday, he had a rice cake cut into the shape of an aeroplane. Mr Crieff said nothing._

The sweetshop was always filled with large jars of sweets in the window. The centre jar filled with toffees.

 _"Here we are," Mrs Crieff smiled, setting down a packet of toffees._ _"But, mum... My puppy fat. You said -"_ _His mother picked up a toffee, unwrapped it and placed it in her mouth. She chewed for a little while before spitting it in the bin. "You chew and spit. All taste, no calories. It is your birthday, after all."_ _"Thanks mum!"_ _The look on his dad's face when he saw his son and wife chewing toffees and spitting them out was shocked to say the least. Then his face fell and he slunk out of the room. Martin's brow furrowed, mum was being nice, wasn't she? She was helping him lose his puppy fat so he could be a handsome boy. And the best aeroplanes were small and sleek, soon he would be too._

He passed a child and his mother, carrying bags from the school uniform shop in the high street.

 _"Sorry, I don't like this; it makes my puppy fat stand out..." Martin told the shop assistant. She looked scared and shocked, like dad did when Martin spat his sweets out._ _"What... What did you say?" The assistant stuttered._ _"The jumper. I... I don't like it. It makes my puppy fat look so... much."_ _The assistants face twisted in horror, making him frown; but mum looked sort of... proud, so he smiled back._

The school was dark and silent as he ran past - it was the weekend.

 _That girl, Chelsea, offered him a toffee at break on his first day in school. "Do you want one?" She asked sweetly, batting her eyelashes._ _"Thank you," Martin smiled. He took a toffee, unwrapped it and chewed it. Chelsea sat next to him, swinging her feet._ _He chewed for two minutes, which Chelsea looked confused about. He took out an empty Tupperware box from his bag, and spat it out. Chelsea looked disgusted for a second, then like she might cry, "D-didn't you like it?" She sniffed._ _"I did like it," Martin frowned, "I love toffees."_ _"Then... Then why did you spit it out?"_ _"Doesn't your mum do chew and spit with you?"_ _"What's that?"_ _"You chew the sweets and then spit them out. All taste, no cal-or-ies..."_ _"What are cal-or-ies?"_ _"They make you fat."_ _"... You're weird." With that, Chelsea got up and left._

He turned around, heading back to the student house. His legs and lungs were burning but he couldn't stop. He resented his mother for giving this to him.


	4. Chapter 4

_One thing is certain about anorexia. Severe calorie restriction has dire physical effects. When your body doesn't get the fuel it needs to function normally, it goes into starvation mode and slows down to conserve energy. Essentially, your body begins to consume itself. If self-starvation continues and more body fat is lost, medical complications pile up and your body and mind pay the price._

* * *

When he finally got back to the house, he felt like he was going to faint. He could hardly walk properly, stumbling and gasping from the running.

He pushed himself to run up the three fights of stairs to his attic. _The burn is good. The pain is good._ _You still have those exercises to do you fat little shit_. He fell through the attic room door, landing painfully on his arm. It would bruise, he bruised like a peach these days.

He staggered to his feet, clutching his arm to his chest, observing the bruising that already began to form. He prodded at it and hissed in pain before sighing, shaking his head in exasperation.

He checked the mirror. He was flushed and sweaty, his skin had a yellow tint that always became more apparent when he was this determined. He just shrugged, as he did with the blood in his vomit. Doesn't matter. _Remember the objective to this exercise... You'll look like a proper, stylish captain if you just lose one more size._

He lay on the floor, feet tucked under the sofa to hold them down, and began his predetermined set of a hundred sit ups. He needed to be _toned_.

At the thirtieth sit up, the phone rang. Martin sighed and pulled himself up to get the phone. He took several steadying breaths before answering. "Hello?" He enquired a little breathlessly.

"Martin, it's Carolyn; we've had a last minute booking," Carolyn's voice came over the telephone.

"Right, coming now..." Martin nodded, not that she could see him.

"Good," Carolyn hung up and Martin hung his head, he was exhausted.

He had a quick wash, pulled on his uniform and hailed a taxi; he was exhausted and just needed to rest his eyes for a minute. He was so tired.


	5. Chapter 5

_Some of the physical effects of anorexia include:_

 _Lack of energy and weakness_

 _Slowed thinking; poor memory_

 _Dizziness, fainting, and headaches..._

* * *

As the taxi pulled up outside the airfield, Martin was feeling a bit less out of breath, though still exhausted. His eyelids were heavy and he had the mother of all headaches.

He got out and paid the driver, who nodded curtly before speeding off to find his next client.

By the time Martin had made it up the steps and into the plane, he was out of breath again. _Come on you fat little fuck - it was a couple of stairs!_

Dark spots played in his vision and he had to steady himself on one of the seats. How long had it been since he ate? He couldn't remember...

Right. Job to do. He had to fly to... Fly to... Fly to...

Where was he flying to? He couldn't remember. He _couldn't remember_!

"Martin!" Carolyn barked from behind him. He span around, only to regret it and hope his vision stilled soon. "This is our client, Mr Duncan."

The man behind Carolyn was fashionably thin, quite tall with dark blonde hair and handsome features. Everything he wasn't. _At least you'll be thin after you lose one more size!_

"H-hello, Mr..." Martin began, but couldn't finish. What was that name? Where was he flying? "Hello, Mr... Mr..."

"Are you alright?" Mr... what's-his-name asked.

"F-fine... Mr..." Martin frowned. What the hell was going on.

"Martin, what on earth are you playing at?" Carolyn demanded.

"I... I..." Martin swayed. He had to grab hold of the seat to avoid falling over, "I... think something's... wrong..."

"Martin!" Carolyn yelled as everything went black. He felt like he was falling...


End file.
